


I Believe I Was a Little In Love With You (or Nine Things That Never Happened to Marius Pontmercy)

by bethfrish



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-25
Updated: 2005-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine not included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe I Was a Little In Love With You (or Nine Things That Never Happened to Marius Pontmercy)

Combeferre looks at him imploringly from across the table, speaking softly because the room is all but empty. "You are well-read and open-minded, Marius. A combination beneficial to us all. Do not let us intimidate you." 

Marius toys with the cuff of his sleeve and frowns. "I am not intimidated by you." 

Combeferre nods. "Good. Then I shall see you tomorrow." 

He leaves without waiting for a response, knowing that there is a subtle difference between being open-minded and being impressionable. Even so, when Marius chooses the seat just to his left the following night, Combeferre can't help but smile. 

  
  
  
  


After their last session, Feuilly steps away from the canvas and compares the two. The imperfect curls. The stiff posture. The dark eyes, forever staring past you instead of at you. Marius makes for an exquisite model, with enough mystery in that guarded, aristocratic expression to challenge even Feuilly's wasted talents. 

"Thank you for doing this, Marius. I so rarely have the time anymore," he says, and steps closer to lay one paint-smeared hand upon his shoulder. 

Marius looks up at him, expressionless, but Feuilly notes that the shade of his cheeks no longer matches the one in the painting. 

  
  
  
  


Jehan admires the single amaryllis bulb as they walk, nestled in its small pot of black soil. "The moment it flowers, everything in its presence will darken by comparison. M. Mabeuf will like it, I assure you." 

Marius inspects the pot of dirt. "I'm so dense about these things." 

"Nonsense. Though you had better make a point of never being around the poor thing." He slips his hand into the crook of Marius' arm as they walk. "You'll make it jealous." 

Marius makes a face, not displeased, and Jehan hopes that his poetry is less transparent when speaking of politics. 

  
  
  
  


After the fever breaks, it's simply a matter of keeping watch. Joly sets up a desk nearby, angled so that he can see Marius out of the corner of his eye while he checks the names of the recruited medical students. But four days with little sleep has rendered him almost as exhausted as his patient, and he finally passes out, dreaming of cold compresses and red-lipped fevers named Pontmercy. 

When Marius wakes him up on the morning of the fifth day by brushing a kiss across his cheek, Joly decides to go on faith that the fever is gone. 

  
  
  
  


Grantaire laughs when he finds him in the café, alone, reading a book. "You're a confused one, aren't you," he says, taking his volume and trading it for a bottle of wine. He pumps the boy full of drink, deep red as it dribbles down Marius' chin, pale green until he remembers that he probably shouldn't. 

He fills his head with pages of nothing, meaningless speeches that trail off as he watches wine spill over the boy's fingers. Marius is far too drunk to detect the bitterness in Grantaire's reluctant kisses, and Marius is the one who tastes of absinthe. 

  
  
  
  


Courfeyrac smirks when he comes home from a meeting to find him asleep in his bed. Volumes of German lie open on the table. Endless, draining sentences, reflecting only three lines in their French translation. 

He shrugs off his waistcoat and tosses it on the empty mattress in the corner. Thin sheets and stiff pillows—not nearly as comfortable as Courfeyrac's own bed. Marius jolts awake at the breath on his neck and begins to apologize, but Courfeyrac only strokes his hair, and his lips against Marius' skin are like the silk of the two cravats lying on the floor. 

  
  
  
  


There aren't enough candles in the poorly lit cellar, and certain corners have achieved that perfect shade of darkness. Marius can't think what time it is. 

He stares passively into the smoky haze from his spot against the wall, mostly sober, but tired enough so that he doesn't see the figure passing through the shadows until it's right there next to him. 

"So much better than the Musain," the silhouette murmurs, pressing him up against the wall. Marius gives a hum in response and goes off to order another drink, though Bahorel has a taste for more than just wine. 

  
  
  
  


"I'd have snatched you up first, if I'd had the chance," Bossuet says, kicking his shoes into the corner. "If I'd had a place to live." He smirks. "But aside from that. Things would have been very different." 

Marius shifts as Bossuet pulls on his waistband. "Oh?" 

"Mmm. The revolution would've had to do without me. I'd have never left our bed." He draws Marius onto the mattress by the hips. 

Marius lets his watch drop onto the pile of clothing on the floor. They have fifteen minutes. "We'll never know," he says doubtfully, and lowers himself onto his stomach. 

  
  
  
  


Enjolras leans heavily against the brick. "Why are you here?" he rasps, almost angrily, as musket shots ring out in the distance. "You were never one of us." 

Marius sneers at the fist clenched in his hair, and tightens his lips until Enjolras comes with a cry. "I would rather die here than live," he says, rising, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Is that so unlike you?" 

"Yes," Enjolras returns. "But then, there are many things about you I could never hope to understand," and he lets Marius push him down to his knees. 


End file.
